


Unleash Me Your Monsters

by modernepitaph



Category: Glee
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernepitaph/pseuds/modernepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt is fairly certain that April Rhodes is a terrible human being. But at the same time, the moments he remembers from before half the bottle of Chablis was gone, the moments where he was mostly lucid but with a slight tingle in his fingers and toes and teeth - those moments stand out; it was <i>nice</i>. Relaxing, an adjective Kurt doesn’t often use in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after The Rhodes Not Taken in season one, going through the end of season two.

There are only a few things that Kurt remembers about the conversation that changed his life.

He remembers his slow trek down the hallway, begging his eyes to focus on the locker numbers, hoping he hadn’t passed his yet. He vaguely remembers talking to Ms. Pillsbury, doubling over, and waking up in the nurse’s office, his mouth tasting like vomit, pulse pounding in his chest.

He turned his head, breathing deeply, noticing April in the next bed, grinning at him.

“Took my advice, eh?”

Kurt grunted in reply. “Great advice, Ms. Rhodes. I’m probably expelled now.”

“Nah, honey, you’ll be fine. Stomach bug going around school, remember? Why do you think I’m in here?” She winked at him. His stomach churned.

She slid over to sit next to him, lowering her voice, “You look like you got run over by a bulldozer. You drink that whole bottle last night?”

He nodded, wincing at his brain rattling around in his skull. “Wasn’t I supposed to?”

“Oh, honey! You’ve gotta learn to pace yourself! You end up like this all the time and you’ll be outta here faster than you can say ‘liver failure’!” She snapped her fingers. “You think I got to where I am by binge-drinking?”

He did think that, but he just looked at the ceiling, squinting against the light. His brain felt like someone was beating drumsticks against it. He concentrated on his breathing, in out in out, trying to settle the nausea pressing against his gag reflex.

He opened an eye, looking at April who was still watching him. He looked at her fully and sighed.

“So how do I do it?”

She cocked her head to the side, humming thoughtfully. “You didn’t hear this from me.”

“Hear what from you?”

“Exactly,” she scrunched up her nose, smiling wide.

+++

Kurt is fairly certain that April Rhodes is a terrible human being.

But at the same time, the moments he remembers from before half the bottle of Chablis was gone, the moments where he was mostly lucid but with a slight tingle in his fingers and toes and teeth - those moments stand out. The discovery of turning his head and waiting for his vision to catch up as a new source of entertainment, slapping his cheeks to get feeling back into them, laying on his back and watching the ceiling fan spin; it was _nice_. Relaxing, an adjective Kurt doesn’t often use in his life.

He parks as far away as possible from the front doors of the school, hoping he was discreetly sipping the dark wine from a travel coffee mug, feeling the warmth spread from his throat to his feet. A gentle buzzing behind his eyes, he feels light on his feet, feels like he is floating through the halls.

Floating face-first into a locker. He scowls at the retreating letterman jackets but revels in the absence of the blunt pain of metal on flesh. This numbness - he could get used to it.

It takes some clever maneuvering and secret under-the-bleachers conversations, in which Kurt feels like the world’s biggest loser, but he uses the allowance his dad gives him to buy airline bottles from Brett and his stoner friends, who apparently have connections and interests that don’t include smoking pot.

It takes a lot of trial and error, and a lot of Tylenol, to work out which types of alcohols work better than others to allow him to maintain a steady buzz without getting throw-up-drunk. He finds that while he prefers the sweet, sometimes dry, taste of wine, vodka is really the only thing that doesn’t leave him feeling like his head is splitting open. It is also easily covered by gum or breath mints, something that is immensely helpful when he spies Ms. Pillsbury eyeing him suspiciously in the halls.

+++

He makes it through much of his sophomore year unnoticed, which is just fine for him. He has a specific drinking schedule. Never before school - vodka and toothpaste is a deplorable combination. He arrives in this usual spot in the back of the parking lot, and from there, begins to build his buzz. He allows for enough time between lunch and glee to sober up, and is back to himself when he drives home in the afternoon.

Kurt will be the first to admit that he lets his classwork slip to the wayside. The alcohol constantly in his system keeps him just this side of lethargic, and his attention span is spotty at best. He daydreams in class, ignores the notes on the overhead projector, but completes tests and quizzes based on, mostly, common sense. McKinley isn’t much of a challenge, even drunk.

Despite this, his falling grades don’t go unnoticed by his father, but it isn’t until after Christmas that his dad starts voicing his suspicions. Kurt has a catalogue of excuses ready, and his dad, ever-trusting, buys them. Kurt feels guilt like concrete in his stomach, but his dad is off his back.

He is early to glee club. He takes his usual seat on the back riser, staring down at the parent-teacher conference note in his hand.

“Bummer,” Finn says, startling Kurt and taking the seat next to him. “Me too.” He holds up a similar note, nodding to Kurt’s. “My mom’s gonna be pissed. I failed that history test last week.”

Kurt nods, “Me too.”

The rest of the club filters in, and Finn leans in conspiratorially, “I kinda miss when I was in middle school; my mom was dating this guy and she was so happy all the time that I never got in trouble. It was awesome.”

Kurt looks up at Finn. “You’re a genius.”

“I am?” A half-smile appears on his face. “Cool.”

There is a hasty introduction at the parent-teacher conference, and Kurt sits at an empty desk and watches his dad, _his dad_ , flirt.

Soon, he finds himself alone several nights a week, his dad and Finn’s mom, Carole, out to dinner, to movies.

It is several months into their relationship and they are _happy_ , which, Kurt has to admit to himself, makes him a little happy too.

When his junior year starts, he feels like he needs a fresh start. He drinks the first day of school, but when the jocks ignore him, with the exception of one slushy, he decides to experiment with sobriety.

His friends in glee seem shocked at his active participation, and when Mr. Schuester uses Brittany’s ridiculous name confusion to throw down his ideas, he goes back to his quiet self, ignoring the looks he gets for speaking out at all.

He won’t let this control him. Except that, as the week drags on, he is more frustrated, angrier, and as tired as he’s ever felt. It reminds him why he ever started in the first place. He wasn’t listened to then, and he isn’t listened to now.

It all comes to a head on Friday, when Mr. Schue ignores him for the millionth time and he loses it. He yells, barely holds himself back from cursing, and sits back in his chair, shaking. Everyone around him is shocked, trying to hold in their laughter, and he snatches his bag from the floor, stomping out of the room.

When he brings home his detention slip for his dad to sign, he signs without really reading over it, getting ready for his date with Carole.

“Stop acting up,” is all he says before stepping through the front door.

That’s when Kurt decides that Finn Hudson is the smartest person he knows. And that sobriety is overrated.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt has to stop himself several times from asking Mr. Schue to pull over so he can vomit. Ms. Pillsbury is muttering nonsensically to him, trying to be reassuring but failing spectacularly.

When they pull into the visitors lot, Kurt vaguely wonders if his father is already dead.

The beige building looms large before them. Kurt stumbles over his feet, his buzz completely gone, Ms. Pillsbury’s small hand guiding his shoulder. The elevator takes ages to reach the third floor, and when the doors open, the bright lights hurt Kurt’s eyes, and all he can remember is being seven years old and wondering why his mom wasn’t sleeping at home anymore.

They wait and wait and when a middle-aged man in blue scrubs approaches them, Kurt feels his heart finally break into pieces.

A coma. His dad is in a coma, and might never come out of it, leaving Kurt all alone.

He sits by his dad’s bedside, holding his hand tight, refuses to cry in front of Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury. His eyes burn, but when they drive him back to McKinley to pick up his car, he makes a stop behind the bleachers, and finds Brett.

+++

Kurt is barely aware of how he made it down all the stairs to his room without falling, because he’s more drunk than he ever remembers being before. He wants to forget about it all - the stark whiteness of the floors and halls and counters of the hospital, his dad lying prone in the bed, memories of his mother flooding his mind.

He feels like he is completely breaking down, leaving pieces of himself behind - he doesn’t move from his floor, but keeps his face in contact with the scratchy rug to remind himself that he is alive.

He feels utterly alone - and he is, surrounded only by the rotten circumstances in his life and the empty bottles on his floor. The ringing of the phone next to him wakes him from his stupor. He rolls over onto his back, smacks his cheeks to wake himself up. He concentrates on breathing, on suppressing his nausea, and the phone stops ringing.

Pushing himself up, he slowly makes his way upstairs, wincing against the light when he opens the door to the rest of the house. Unsure of what to do with himself, Kurt wanders the house. He passes by his dad’s room several times, glancing inside, but when he finally walks in, he regrets it.

Everything smells like his dad. He strides over to the broken dresser in the corner and falls to his knees, yanking the bottom drawer open and laying his face on the floor next to it, inhaling deeply. The faint perfume has always comforted him, but when he was younger it was always the scent mixed with his dad’s comforting words, an arm over his shoulders, rough hand squeezing his neck. Kurt chokes on its absence; the memory of his mother doing nothing more than reminding him what he is on the verge of losing again.

He cradles the nearly empty bottle against his side, chest heaving with broken sobs. He reaches behind him blindly, grabbing the comforter off the bed, dragging it down to the floor with him. He wraps himself up in it, pulling desperately from the bottle, willing himself to wake up from this nightmare, but it’s everywhere. For the first time, the alcohol has failed him - he looks down at the bottle in his hand. This was supposed to be the one thing that made everything go away, that made him forget, made him some semblance of happy. His dad’s scent surrounds him and it should be comforting, but he is too lost to the alcohol, to his grief, to grasp at positivity.

He jolts awake to a thump from down the hall. He burrows back into the blanket, his head pounding, tongue thick.

“Kurt? You here, dude?”

Kurt groans. On the list of acceptable people he is willing to talk to, Finn is not on the list. He tries to succumb to the sleep pulling at him, gravity dragging him back into the warm cocoon of the comforter.

“Oh! There you are.” Heavy footsteps, and Finn is kneeling behind him, pulling on his shoulder to roll him over.

“Get th’ fuck off-a me, Finn,” Kurt mumbles, trying to curl back in on himself. The room is still dark, and he wonders how long he had been asleep. He certainly still feels the alcohol in his numb limbs, the lax feeling in his muscles.

“I’ve been calling you all day. Mom sent me over - she wanted to know if you wanted to stay with us while Burt’s in the hospital.”

Kurt feels traitorous tears burn in his eyes again, “No. Go away.”

Finn is quiet for a long moment - too long for Finn, and when Kurt turns his head slightly to check if he is still there, he sees Finn staring. He follows his eye line and notes the empty vodka bottle still in his loose grip.

“Oh,” he breathes, closing his eyes, hoping this is all part of a horrible dream.

“What the hell, Kurt?” He grabs for the bottle.

Tightening his fingers, Kurt pushes himself up. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. You can leave.”

“Kurt, are you - are you drunk right now?”

“Leave, Finn.” He pulls himself upright, teetering, his legs feeling like jelly. Finn just stares at him. “I said leave!” he shouts.

Finn opens his mouth to say something but sighs, looking frustrated, and moves toward Kurt. “Fucking leave!” Kurt throws himself into Finn, knocking him back.

“Kurt--”

He throws the empty bottle at him, which misses and bounces pitifully off the door frame. “Get out,” he hisses. “Get out, get out, get out.” He shoves Finn into the hallway, partly grateful that Finn is sturdy enough to help him stay upright, but mostly desperate to get Finn out of his house, away from his secrets. He knows the damage is done, that Finn knows, saw with his own eyes.

The adrenaline juxtaposed with the alcohol still in his veins, he feels punchy, a strange hyper-tired. He slams the front door once Finn is on the other side and slides down the wall, trying to catch his breath. He buries his face in his hands, tears sliding down his cheeks again. When he feels more awake, more alive, he’ll remind himself to do damage control, but right now he just wants to sleep.

+++

He finally accepts Carole’s invitation after a weekend of sleeping in his cold, empty house, and he shoves his much less conspicuous supply of airline bottles to the bottom of the bag he packs.

The time they spend at the hospital is quiet, peppered with visits from other members of the glee club, but Kurt focuses on his dad. He squeezes his hand waiting for the moment his dad grips back.

And after a week of waiting, it finally happens.

+++

With his dad out of the hospital, Kurt is desperate for life to get back to normal as quickly as possible. Finn keeps giving him these glances in class and in glee and he feels constantly on edge, like Finn is just going to say, “So guess what I saw Kurt doing a few weeks ago?”

He never dismisses the possibility. It _is_ Finn.

Three weeks after his father is released from the hospital, he and Carole make the announcement that they are looking for a new house. One big enough for four people.

“It just made sense, ya know?” his dad says to his shocked expression. “Carole’s a nurse, and you’re growing up. If this ever happens again,” he gestures vaguely to his chest, “it’d just be nice to have someone around.” He gets a contented look on his face, and Kurt knows he’s thinking about Carole.

He’s genuinely happy that his dad has Carole. What started out as little more than a distraction has blossomed into something great for someone who’s already suffered so much heartache in his life. And if she continues to keep his attention, hey, added bonus. Kurt hugs his dad and settles next to him on the couch, flipping through real estate magazines.

+++

It isn’t long before Finn corners him in the parking lot after school.

“I’m missing the beginning of football practice for this.”

“Well then, by all means, don’t let me keep you, Finn.” Kurt turns to unlock his car and escape as quickly as possible.

Finn closes in. “No, man. We’ve gotta talk about it.”

Kurt closes his eyes and sighs. “We really don’t.”

“You were drunk. When I came over.”

Kurt looks up at him and nods. “Yes.”

“Because your dad was in the hospital?”

“You know he was, Finn.”

Finn waves him off, “No, I mean - is that the reason why?”

Kurt bites his lip, weighs his options. “That-that’s not the- that’s why that day, yes.”

Finn cocks his head, “That day?”

“I- Finn...” he scratches the back of his neck. “This is not something you need to get involved in, okay? I’m fine.”

Finn stares down at him. “Kurt--”

“No. Finn. I’m fine. Seriously.”

“I just don’t- I don’t want to see you get hurt, okay? I know we used to push you around last year, but- I’m serious, okay?”

“Finn, I-” Kurt doesn’t know what to say. He’s teetering dangerously between being irritated with Finn’s persistence, and genuinely touched by his concern.

“Just let me know what I can do to help.”

Kurt sniffs. “You can help by keeping your mouth shut.” Finn’s eyes widen in shock.

“I’m serious, Finn. Don’t tell anybody. Please. Not my dad, not your mom, not Rachel or anybody.” Finn looked ready to protest. “Really, Finn. I’ve got it under control, okay?”

With that, he turns from Finn and climbs into his car. He drives away, checking his rear view mirror and finding Finn’s dumbfounded expression.

+++

He’s sick of detoxing, but he has felt off since the first day his dad went into the hospital. Something about the two day bender set off his schedule, took his body too close to its breaking point, and he hasn’t felt right since. It’s the first time he’s tried sobriety since the outburst at the beginning of the school year. He’s tired of the jokes at his expense, the laughter that stops when he enters the choir room. Detoxing just amplifies them all, and he hates it. He actually makes an effort in the Glee mash-up assignment, an apology to Coach Beiste in which he really takes no part, and is immediately shot down by the guys.

The unfortunate downside of the detox - he is angry at everyone, all the time. But every so often, he has to do it. He has to stay in control. The second he isn’t in charge of himself, he’ll be lost; he’ll drown.

When he isn’t drinking, doesn’t feel the constant buzz underneath his skin, is when he’s most volatile. When the Glee girls throw tantrums, bicker, fight as they generally do, one of the guys will inevitably make a joke about the ‘time of the month.’ Kurt is not immune to these jokes; most days he finds it easier to keep his water bottle nearby, if only to keep from launching himself at Puck, fists flying. He’s learned to watch his mouth around his dad, for the most part, and has regained several privileges that were taken from him - most importantly, transportation.

Puck suggests he spies on the competition, and Kurt has had it. He storms out of the room, leaves them to the assignment. He sneaks out of school during their lunch period, shaking with anger.

He completely intends to drive home and spend the rest of the day holed up in his room with a bottle and a pile of dvds. Maybe, _maybe_ , make dinner, or at least help Carole.

Instead, he finds himself pulling up the navigation app on his phone, setting his destination for Westerville.

Less than two hours later, he pulls up outside of what can’t possibly be a school. He finds a spot marked ‘visitors’ and wanders the halls, hoping he can lurk in the background without bringing too much attention to himself. A bell sounds, and the hallways are filled with blue blazers. He hears someone mentioning the Warblers, and follows them down a narrow stairway. He stops a boy to ask what is going on; those amber eyes are the beginning of the end for Kurt.

When Blaine later tells him _it doesn’t have to be like this - confront him, call him out_ , Kurt is torn between running away and pretending he was never here, and clinging to Blaine and never letting go. He wants to cover his ears and hum, get back into his car, and leave. Part of him doesn’t want to know what kind of life he could have at Dalton. The other part is painfully aware how easy it would be to let himself go, to leave McKinley behind, never get tossed into another locker by Karofsky and Azimio, to not get laughed at by the people who are supposed to be his friends. He knows his dad could never afford it, but the fantasy is there.

+++

He quits his detox and settles back into his morning drinking schedule. It is days later when he takes Blaine’s advice. It backfires spectacularly.

He registers the pressure of fingers through the numbness in his cheeks, and Karofsky’s lips are on his. The contact sparks down his spine and he lets out a shuddering breath. The room around him spins, smells like sweat and boy; the air is thick with steam from the showers, but Kurt is frozen, can’t move, doesn’t push Dave away from him. Karofsky has him all but pinned against a locker, cold metal at his back, and the fuzzy part of Kurt’s brain thinks _this is nice_ , the weight against his body; no matter that it’s Karofsky, the fact that he is feeling anything is somewhat of a revelation to him. After so long of being ignored except to be pushed out of the way, the notion of being _wanted_ sinks into Kurt’s bones, and he falls plaint against the locker, brings his hand up to Karofsky’s arm, gripping his fingers into the leather of his jacket. He feels a groan in the back of his throat, tries to swallow it down, but it demands to be heard, lost into the mouth against his.

A tentative tongue presses against his bottom lip, and when Kurt’s mouth falls open, he finds himself roughly pushed into the locker, and Karofsky is backing away, eyes narrowed but shocked.

It’s then that Kurt realizes he must taste and smell like he bathed in vodka. A small sound escapes him, and he looks up at Dave, who is still just staring, wondering. Karofsky huffs out a humorless laugh and leaves the locker room without looking back.

Kurt slides down the locker until he is level with the bench, which he leans against, panting to catch his breath, to gain the strength to push himself to his knees, heaving himself up, stumbling after Karofsky into the gym.

“Karofsky!” He hasn’t caught his voice back completely, but it echoes through the gym, empty but for Dave heading for the door leading to the courtyard beyond. He runs after Karofsky, vision blurring with tears when he finally catches up with him. “Please--”

Dave turns, bearing down on Kurt. “What the _fuck_ , Hummel?”

“Please, please don’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Get a fucking grip!” he hisses. “Who the fuck do you think I’m going to tell?”

Kurt just shakes his head, tears still falling, heart hammering away in his chest. Karofsky narrows his eyes.

“I tell someone I ki-” he looks around to make sure they are alone, lowers his voice. “I tell someone I kissed you and you smell like booze? What part of that sentence do you think they’re going to focus on, huh?”

“I don’t - just, please.”

Dave just shakes his head at him and stomps away, leaving Kurt alone in the courtyard.


	3. Chapter 3

After the incident in the locker room, he had gone straight home and brushed his teeth three times, showered, scrubbed, trying to get the memory of Karofsky out of his skin. The feeling of _not hating it_ ; he wanted to drown in the shame he felt.

He is starting to lose himself in the alcohol.

He keeps himself fully immersed in wedding preparation; distractions aren’t only for his dad after all. And this is something he is _good at_ , something he actually enjoys; he is better at this than anyone he knows, and even more importantly, everyone else knows it too.

Just as he is discussing color palates with Carole, his dad bursts into the conversation, “Let’s just get to the important stuff,” he grins. “Liquor or beer?”

Kurt’s heart skips a beat and he feels the color drain from his face. “W-what?”

“We can’t have a reception without a bar, kiddo!” Burt claps him on the shoulder and falls into his armchair.

“We most certainly can,” Kurt says as defiantly as he can manage.

“Kurt, honey,” Carole lays a hand on his arm. Kurt feels his heart beating in his throat. “It’s just one night, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“Dad, but your heart--”

“Will be just fine!”

Kurt knows he has to fight this. The temptation will be too great. Open bar, everyone dancing, enjoying themselves. He won’t be able to stop himself.

“Dad, you don’t--”

“Kurt, look,” his voice is stern, “I know I’ve had some health issues but I’m a grown man. My kid is not gonna tell me not to drink. And that’s that.”

Kurt doesn’t get much input after that. He bites the inside of his mouth to keep the frustrated tears in his eyes at bay, sniffs discreetly, and goes back to the binder in Carole’s hands.

+++

“So I heard we’re going to have champagne! Very classy!” Rachel hangs onto Finn’s arm as they walk to the parking lot from their last class.

Finn glances down at Kurt, who doesn’t look at him, stares determinedly ahead. “Yeah, awesome, right?”

The wedding is a day away and Kurt feels constantly on the verge of breakdown. At the reception hall, he directs everyone to their places with tablecloths, candles, centerpieces, and studiously ignores the bar his dad is setting up in the corner.

When everything is set perfectly, his dad and Carole leave for last minute dress and tux preparations. Finn is practicing moves on the dance floor as Kurt fixes the angle on a centerpiece.

“You ready to go, man?”

“Yeah, just about.” He arranges the flowers as best he can, and hums when they finally lay the way he intends. He takes a last look at the bar and frowns.

“You’ll be cool, right?” Finn asks. “You won’t drink?”

Kurt’s frustration must be apparent on his face, because Finn lays a hand on his shoulder. Kurt roughly shrugs him off. “I’ll just be fucking great, Finn, thanks.”

Finn holds up his hands defensively, “Hey, I’m just asking.”

Kurt grabs his bag from the floor and pulls out his keys. “Let’s go.”

“Hey, no, wait. Are you really not cool with this?”

Kurt turns on his heel, glaring at Finn.

“Of course I’m not cool with this, Finn. What did you think? That I was just going to have a grand ol’ time watching everyone enjoy themselves on booze while I use it just to get through a day?”

“No, no, I--”

“You what, Finn? It’s your fucking fault I’m like this anyway.”

“Woah, wait, _what_?” Finn’s eyebrows narrow and he frowns at Kurt. “How is this _my_ fault?”

Kurt throws down his bag. “For so long, all you jocks did was torture me. Why do you think I started in the first place? Because I had so many fucking bruises and cuts from being tossed into dumpsters and thrown against lockers that it’s the only thing that made it stop hurting.”

Kurt is shaking as everything he’s kept silent on for so long comes tumbling out. It’s easy to put the blame on Finn, even if he doesn’t feel the anger toward him anymore. It’s got to be someone’s fault.

“Kurt, I--”

“You think you’re such a fucking hero, Finn. But you're not. You want to be the guy that sweeps in and saves the day but you're just not." He knows, _knows_ it isn't fair to drop all this on Finn. He doesn't blame him, not really, but its easier than telling himself he should've, could’ve, quit a long time ago. Finn has been nothing but supportive, and it almost makes Kurt physically ill to yell at him, say the things that he doesn’t even think about. It hits him hard, the realization that what started him on this path isn’t a part of his life anymore - hasn’t been for months.

He picks up his bag and leaves the reception hall, sick with himself.

+++

Panic is setting in. His life is officially over. His dad is going to murder him.

He stares at the note in his hand, attached to his midterm report card.

_Due to poor academic performance, the Allen County School Board has no choice but to place Kurt Hummel on academic suspension for the remainder of the school year._

He is going to lose everything - all the privileges he’s fought so hard to keep, nothing is going to distract his dad from this. As much as he loves his dad, he sometimes wishes he was _less_ attentive.

He looks at the pamphlet from Ms. Pillsbury in his other hand. _So You’re Failing Out of School._

+++

“Kurt, this is _completely unacceptable_.”

He nods silently, biting his lip to keep his emotions in check. Finn tenses next to him on the couch, everything in his body language screaming that he wishes he’d left the room earlier; he looks ready to bolt.

“This is a long time coming, kiddo. Your grades have been awful this past year. I should take away your car, your phone, everything!” He is red-faced, and Kurt feels guilty not for the first time for needlessly stressing out his father.

“You got anything to say for yourself?”

Kurt lets out a breath. “Dad, I’ll try harder. I will- I don’t know how I let my grades drop so far--”

Finn lets out a conspicuous cough. Kurt glares at him and stomps on his foot.

“Hey!”

Burt rounds on Finn, “You got something to add?”

Finn’s eyes widen and he looks down at his knees. “Uh, no sir.”

“Get _out_ of here, Finn,” Kurt says through clenched teeth. Finn doesn’t need to be told twice - he jumps off the couch and runs up the stairs two at a time.

“What’s going on, Kurt?” His dad puts a hand on his knee, another on his shoulder. “Are you not being challenged enough?”

“No, Dad,” Kurt hates the desperation in his voice. “I’m being challenged plenty.”

“Kurt, it’s not just the falling grades - your whole attitude has changed. You need more structure in your life. And McKinley doesn’t seem to be giving you that. Now, Carole and I have talked it over and--”

He hands Kurt a brochure. He looks up at his dad, dumbfounded.

“ _Dalton_?”

+++

They meet at the nearly empty Lima Bean. While Blaine is still waiting for his coffee at the counter, Kurt puts himself between Blaine and his own coffee and discreetly empties an airline bottle of Bailey’s.

“Mid-semester transfers aren’t so rare, actually,” Blaine says behind him, like they were having a conversation.

Kurt hums, putting the lid back on his coffee and taking a sip.

“You could join the Warblers.”

“I don’t think so, Blaine,” Kurt mumbles. “My grades--”

“I’ll help you. I’ll tutor you. Make sure you’re on the right track,” Blaine grins at him.

Kurt just sighs, “We’ll see.”

Part of him wants to be ecstatic about going to Dalton; this means more time spent with Blaine, but it also means that his dad, Carole, Finn have to live a little tighter at home, and his dad will always feel that little bit of disappointment about him essentially failing out of school. It's what he hates more than anything, the confusion and concern from his dad, the pitying looks from Carole, and Finn - Finn who has shocked Kurt the most by keeping quiet about what he knows, even though Kurt is killing himself with this and has been nothing but awful to Finn. He has, not for the first time, stuck true to his word.

+++

His transition into Dalton isn’t easy. The days of breezing through mediocre classes taught by bored, disinterested faculty are over. He enters an involuntary phase of detoxification, running on pure nerves and anxiety.

Classes are _hard_. Which he isn’t sure was in his dad’s plans, but, as promised, Blaine is beside him every bumpy step of the way.

The mid-semester transfer affords him the luxury of a single room, of which he takes great advantage - hiding places abound. But, strange as it is to Kurt, the bottles remain mostly full as the weeks progress. The fact is he just doesn’t have the _time_ anymore.

Eventually, Blaine convinces him to audition for the Warblers, and he is accepted, but he knows he wavered on several of the notes, his vocal chords tight from disuse. But Blaine, ever-determined Blaine, fights for him, and Kurt adds one more thing to the list of things he has to juggle in his life. It is never quite like the working dysfunction of New Directions, but he feels welcome for the first time in recent memory.

They have a standing agreement to use their free period after lunch to study together, and the day before the start of midterm exams - from which Kurt is, rather unfairly, he thinks, not exempt - they walk side-by-side from the cafeteria into the junior commons.

Kurt is watching Blaine - staring, really - as he flips idly through his notebook. Blaine is scribbling into the margins of his tattered copy of _The Great Gatsby_ , occasionally flipping pages, chewing on the end of his pencil. Kurt pulls out his chemistry textbook and finds the chapter on stoichiometry.

He stares at the pages, numbers and chemical compounds swimming in his vision. He looks at the practice test in front of him. _Balancing equations: How many moles of chlorine gas (Cl2) would react with 5 moles of …_

He sighs loudly, his head falling forward onto his book with a _thump_. Blaine laughs beside him.

“Giving up already?”

Kurt lets out a moan and turns his head to look up at Blaine, who is watching Kurt with amusement in his eyes.

“This is impossible.”

“Nah. What are you working on? Chem?”

Kurt nods, sitting up in his seat and angling his book toward Blaine, who scoots his chair over to Kurt’s side. He taps the table with the chewed up eraser end of his pencil, nodding to himself and the study guide.

“Okay. Like this one here, you add hydrogen gas with oxygen gas to make water. But since they are H2 and O2, and you only want H20, you have to have 2H2 + O2. That way you have two hydrogens with one oxygen. Does that make sense?”

Kurt stares at him, dumbfounded.

“Okay, okay,” Blaine smiles, putting his arm over the back of Kurt’s chair. He starts again, “It’s just making sure you have the same amount of each element on each side of the arrow.” He points to another problem.

“So,” Kurt starts slowly, “this one. SnO2 + H2 → Sn + H2O. There’s only one oxygen here, so,” he looks up at Blaine, “I have to put a 2 in front of it. Right?”

“Yes! But then you have 4 hydrogens here, and only 2 here.”

“So it’s 2H2.”

Blaine beams at him. “Way to act like you don’t understand stoichiometry.” He claps his hand down on Kurt’s shoulder, squeezing. He hesitates for a second until Kurt looks up at meets Blaine’s eyes. The hand lingers longer than is strictly necessary, and Blaine blushes and smiles awkwardly, pulling back his hand and sliding his chair a few inches back toward his book.

Kurt breathes slowly, trying not to smile to himself. He straightens up in his chair and looks back down at his worksheet. The numbers have stopped blurring and begin to make sense. He glances through his eyelashes, chancing a look at Blaine, who quickly takes his eyes off of Kurt and buries his face in his novel. His blush is evident above the pages.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are enjoying this so far! Just one chapter left after this.

Kurt is in hell, he’s sure of it, and it looks a lot like Rachel Berry’s basement. He wants to kick himself for coming, and worse, for asking Blaine to tag along. The moment he notices Puck and Santana scheming in the corner, he knows this evening is going to end one of two ways - he’s either going to make a fool of himself and reveal everything he’s worked so hard to hide (except from the exceptionally nosy ogre known as his step-brother) or he’s going to contemplate the pros and cons of murder/suicide. Neither option is ideal.

They both walk over to him, Santana waving a red cup under his nose. His stomach turns. “Come on, Hummel, relax! Have a drink!”

“No thanks,” he tries to push past her, but Puck grabs his shoulder and spins him around.

“Everyone’s drinking,” Puck tries.

“I’m not,” they turn around to where Finn is towering over Santana. “He doesn’t want to drink, leave him alone, man.”

The conversation is deafening, only drowned out by the karaoke machine and Rachel. Mercedes and Tina cackle continuously and loudly in the corner, Santana is shouting at Sam, Lauren and Quinn round in on Puck, who tries to duck away. Kurt is positively miserable, having tucked himself into the couch, torn between screaming and beating the cushions until his fists bleed with fabric burn.

“Kurt! Kurt!” Rachel drops herself onto the couch next to him. He winces when her sweet-smelling breath hits his nose. “Kurt, are you having fun? You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

“It’s the time of my life, Rachel,” he forces out as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her. “Don’t,” he grabs her hands, extracting himself from her grip. He looks around, spots Blaine hanging onto Finn. Finn catches his gaze, looking terrified at the puppy-eyes Blaine is giving him, and walk-runs as fast as he can to the couch. Kurt jumps up, relocates to the edge of the stage, keeping a wary eye on touchy-feely Rachel, throwing a thankful look to Finn.

Blaine falls next to him, leaning his head on Kurt’s shoulder.

“Hi. Having fun?” he grips dopily up at Kurt, who looks away and nods.

“Yup,” he says shortly. Blaine seems satisfied. Across the room, Rachel is arguing with Finn, and when she yells “Let’s play spin the bottle!” the entire group congregates to the center of the room. Blaine steadies himself with a hand on Kurt’s thigh and pushes himself up, grabbing Kurt’s hand and dragging him down with the group. Kurt wills himself to disappear, not for the first time that night.

Kurt wants to bleach away everything he sees for the next twenty-three minutes. Blaine and Rachel sucking face is just the icing on the fucking cake of Kurt’s terrible evening. For the rest of the night, Blaine and Rachel stick side by side, occasionally holding hands when they think no one is watching, and Finn’s eyes don’t leave Kurt. Kurt wants to hyperventilate until his chest explodes, leaving his body a mess for everyone else to clean up.

“Hummel.”

He closes his eyes, not wanting to meet the face that voice belongs to. He receives a hard jab in the ribs.

“What the hell, Puckerman?”

Puck holds his hands up, smiling. “Whoa, Tiger. You need to loosen the fuck up. Have a drink, seriously.”

“Seriously, no.” He glares up at him, mustering his best angry face. Santana saunters over, two red cups in her hands, smiles sweetly down at him.

“Come on. One drink isn’t going to kill you. It’s not like you can get addicted to this stuff.”

The words reverberate in his head. He shoves them both away from him, pushes past where Brittany is dancing around Artie, and stomps up the stairs. He ignores Finn yelling his name, slams the front door shut behind him and sits in the backseat of his car, palms to his eyelids, breathing heavily, his breath clouding in the cold air around him.

He hears the front door open and close and, seconds later, feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looks up through his tears and the look on Finn’s face is one he’s never seen. It’s the most full of concern and emotional he’s ever seen his step-brother. He squeezes Kurt’s shoulder and ruffles his hair.

“Do you want to go?”

Immediately, Kurt nods. “Please.”

“I’ll get Blaine.” He squeezes Kurt’s shoulder again and disappears into the house.

+++

He was wrong, before, when he thought spending an evening with his former glee club was hell. Clearly, dragging a drunk, nearly-immobile Blaine into his house, Finn running ahead to check for parents, is as bad as it could ever get.

He gets Blaine situated on his bed, throws Finn as thankful a look he can muster given the events of the evening, and quietly clicks his door closed. He turns to the boy in his bed, unlaces the sneakers off of his wiggling feet and pulls the duvet up to his shoulders. Blaine lightly grips the pillow underneath his head, curls falling across his face.

Kurt wants to be so _angry, is_ so angry, though he knows Blaine doesn’t deserve it. It doesn’t stop him from feeling it. What Kurt would give to be able to just have fun, let loose, drunkenly make out with a friend (he turns away from Blaine when this thought enters his head) and laugh and afterwards, sing a stupid song together.

It seems so easy in his head, to just _stop_. But he’s tried that before, and it ended with him in Figgin’s office; it’s just easier to make himself numb until he doesn’t have to care anymore. As much as he hates who he is when he’s drunk, he hates sober Kurt even more - afraid and weak, asking to be preyed upon. At least with the alcohol he can smile even if he feels like a total fraud later.

He toes off his shoes, strips down to his undershirt and boxers; he crawls into his closet and carefully, quietly, finds a mostly empty bottle.

A break in Blaine's breathing, and Kurt looks up at his bed, bottle lifted halfway to his mouth. He gapes, stupidly thinking that if he doesn’t move, Blaine won’t notice him. Blaine blinks, narrows his eyes.

“Kurt?” He repositions himself, pushing his arm beneath the pillow. “What're you doing?”

Kurt licks his lips, doesn’t say anything.

“Are we in your room?” Blaine’s eyes roam, taking in his surroundings without moving his head.

“Yes,” Kurt clears his throat.

“What time is it?”

“It’s late. Go back to sleep, Blaine.”

That seems as good a reason as any to sleep, and Blaine rolls onto his side, sighing deeply as his breath evens back out.

Kurt closes his eyes and wills his heart to slow down from its current rat-a-tat in his chest. He takes another swig, thinks ironically to himself - _courage_ \- and twists the cap back on, putting it back in its hiding place.

As he climbs into his bed, he is sure to leave a few inches of space between himself and Blaine. As much as he wants to turn onto his side, fit himself behind Blaine and cling, he reminds himself that he’s angry. At Blaine, at Blaine’s choices, at alcohol and at everyone who can enjoy it without simultaneously self-destructing. At himself, mostly.

For now, his brain is too exhausted from the night. He sleeps.

+++

Two days later, Blaine isn’t speaking to him. The fight they have is ridiculous, isn’t even the beginning of why Kurt is angry. _Maybe I’m bi, I don’t know._ It hurt to see Blaine kiss Rachel, he isn’t denying it. But the underlying issue, Blaine being _drunk_ and kissing Rachel, isn’t something he can even articulate.

But Blaine was immediately defensive, and he made it easy for Kurt to run with that line. Allowed him to spit out all the venom he felt. Now he just feels like shit. Without his best friend around, his life feels empty. It feels wrong, somehow, to drink when he is angry at Blaine for the same reason.

He finds classes barely tolerable without alcohol; and he is so used to spending every moment with Blaine. Warblers rehearsals are awkward at best, and as the days go by, Blaine seems more and more agitated, unable to sit still - which is not unusual by Blaine’s standards, but Kurt recognizes the pained look on Blaine’s face.

Blaine grabs onto his wrist after rehearsal and waits for the room to empty before apologizing - for losing his cool, for getting way too drunk at Rachel’s, for the brief lapse in his homosexuality. Kurt focuses on the second, and accepts the others for what they are. He reciprocates the apology; they fall back into their usual routines, for which Kurt is grateful, because he feels it. The slightly slipping grades. The itch under his skin. He _needs_ Blaine.

+++

He hears a quiet knock through the open window. The door to his room creaks open and a quiet “Kurt?” sounds out.

From his place on the roof, Kurt smiles to himself. “Out here.” Blaine’s head appears in the window.

“What are you doing out there?”

“Just...” Kurt sighs dreamily. “Looking.”

He points vaguely to the night sky, cloudless, beautifully starry.

After the weeks of ups and downs, adjusting to the new school, new schedule, the senseless fight with Blaine, he hadn’t had the time or energy to drink more than he’d usually allotted himself. Now he is back to his self-prescribed dosage. Just enough to take off the sharp edges but enough to keep him lucid and happy. He feels now like he felt after that first talk with April all those months ago.

He looks up behind him to where Blaine is carefully stepping out onto the roof, keeping a hand on the sill. Kurt reaches up and Blaine grasps onto his hand, watching his footing as he settles in next to Kurt.

He lays back, arms behind his head. Kurt can’t take his eyes off of him. Blaine looks as beautiful as ever, moonlight washing pleasantly over his tan skin.

They sit in silence for what seems like hours. Kurt’s buzz is wearing off to a light tingle, sleep heavy in his brain. There’s a sudden chill in the air and a shiver overtakes him. Blaine glances over and pulls an arm out from behind his head, offering to Kurt. He couldn’t say no to Blaine if he wanted to.

Kurt rolls into Blaine’s embrace, breathing deeply the second he’s wrapped in warmth. He fists his fingers into Blaine’s shirt; Blaine is intoxicating, moreso than anything Kurt has ever put into his body. Blaine gives him the best kind of buzz.

“You’re my best friend, Blaine,” he sighs. Blaine’s arm tightens around his shoulders.

“You’re mine too, Kurt.”

Kurt can hear the smile in his voice and lets his eyes drift closed.

+++

_I’ve been looking for you forever._ The words play on a loop in Kurt’s head. Blaine is kissing him. _Blaine_ is _kissing_ him.

And it’s totally different from everything he’s experienced in his life. The tentative kisses with Brittany last year, when he was imagining she was a boy. He remembers with a shudder the weight of Karofsky against him and how at the time he’d vaguely enjoyed it, if only as a connection with _someone_.

But the way Karofsky kissed him is completely different from the way Blaine is kissing him. His lips are soft against his, his hand comes up to cup his cheek, fingertips on his neck. They breathe in hard through their noses, unwilling to part their mouths. Blaine _digs_ into the kiss, pouring out all of the emotion from his confession.

He wonders what he would have felt if he had been sober when Karofsky had kissed him, if he would have protested, pushed him away instead of the other way around. His skin feels like it’s on fire, but it’s a different burn than he’s used to; he feels this one fire every synapse in his brain. Blaine’s skin is warm under his fingers; he wants to dig his fingers into Blaine’s hair, grab his collar and pull him impossibly close.

He is suddenly so glad to be sober at this moment. His body feel like it’s filling with molten lead. When Blaine pulls away, Kurt pants to catch his breath, mourns the loss of body heat. Blaine laughs nervously to himself, looks back at Kurt, and _launches_ himself at him again. They melt into each other, like magnets are pulling them together, until the need to breathe becomes too much. They reluctantly break the kiss and look shyly around the room.

Kurt’s face in on fire, he’s sure of it. Part of him still can’t believe that just happened. It’s all he’s wanted from Blaine for months; Kurt’s been so wrapped up in his brain lately, though, that he’s had little spare room for pining after Blaine. And he’s been so wonderfully, fantastically blindsided.

+++

They are backstage, waiting for the usher to grab them from the dressing room, when it happens.

There is nervous chatter, polished shoes tapping impatiently on the faded carpet, Wes trying in vain to get them to work on scales and harmonies one last time. Kurt is sitting on one of the many couches, water bottle by his feet, listening to Jeff ramble nervously to his left about his solo. Kurt brings the bottle from the floor, needing just a sip to calm his nerves, and is shocked momentarily when the bottle is plucked from his fingers.

“Can I-” Blaine unscrews the cap without finishing his question and throws back the bottle. Kurt scrambles out of his seat, reaching for Blaine’s hands, but when Blaine starts sputtering and coughing, he can’t do anything but stare at the red-faced shock looking back at him.

Wes comes over and thumps Blaine on the back, “Drink much?”

Blaine coughs to catch his breath, “Just- just went down the wrong pipe.” He looks at Kurt but doesn’t say anything. Kurt feels his stomach twisting, something he knows has nothing to do with the fact they are about to be on stage. His skin erupts in goosebumps, he feels the blood rush from his face. He wants to curl up behind the couch and die. Blaine screws the cap to the bottle back on and hands it to Kurt without a word.

+++

On the long ride back to Dalton, Kurt feels miles away from sleep. He pulls his blazer over his head, hiding the shame he feels. He knows it isn't his fault they lost, but he can't shake the image of Blaine’s eyes boring into his, trying to work out his secret.

He should have been honest when Blaine told him about his feelings, when Blaine kissed him and he kissed back. He can only thank a god he doesn't believe in that he hadn't been drinking that day, that there was nothing for Blaine to taste on his tongue.

Not that that matters much anymore.

The Warblers’ quiet conversations on the bus dull down until just the symphony of tinny music through headphones is left.

Kurt feels his eyelids grow heavy when his blazer is pulled from over his head. He squints up into the darkness, his questions answered when Blaine plops into the empty seat next to him.

Kurt takes a deep breath and turns to the window, studiously ignoring him.

“Kurt,” he starts quietly. “Kurt, you're my best friend.” He takes Kurt’s hand, running his fingers around his wrist, over his palm. “That stuff I told you last week, I meant every word of it. And - hey. Please look at me.” His free hand cups Kurt’s cheek, turning him to face Blaine.

Kurt can't help, curses, the tear that runs unbidden down his cheek.

“Why are you crying?” Blaine whispers, wiping the tear away. He isn’t angry, isn’t upset; his voice is dripping with concern. Kurt can only close his eyes and shake his head in reply.

Blaine takes a breath. “What I mean, Kurt, is that telling you that was the most honest I've ever been with anyone, and I was terrified going into it, but it was so easy because it was _you_. I just want you to know that you can always be that honest with me.”

Kurt meets Blaine’s gaze, sniffles quietly.

“Blaine...” He isn’t sure what to say - what he wants to say. How much does he tell Blaine? The secret he’s been carrying alone for so long weighs less and less as the months go by, becoming a part of him rather than a burden on his shoulders.

“Is something going on that necessitated you having that in your water bottle? Bringing it to competition?”

Kurt sits up ramrod straight, checking the seats around him.

Blaine squeezes his hand. “They’re all asleep.” He turns sideways to face Kurt, his cheek resting against the scratchy fabric of the bus seat.

Kurt stays quiet for a long time, just staring at Blaine, willing him to somehow know that he wants to tell him, but can’t find the words. After a long moment, his voice rasps and he can only whisper, “Its not just the competition. Blaine...”

He looks away, can’t stand those eyes digging into him. “You know the phrase actions speak louder than words?”

Blaine nods, curiosity written on his face.

“For the better part of a year now I-I feel like I've been jumping up and down, waving my arms and just screaming. And no one’s noticed. And that's why I- why I had it. Why I drink.”

“So people will notice you?”

“So it hurts less when they don't.”

Neither of them says anything for several minutes.

“I don’t--” Blaine laces his fingers through Kurt’s, leaning his head on his shoulder. “A year?”

Kurt leans his cheek against Blaine’s hair. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of,” he says quietly. He can feel his resolve cracking; these are words he’s never said aloud, even when Finn found out. “And it’s not as bad now as it used to be.” He can almost believe himself when he says it.

“You have been a little different lately,” Blaine says thoughtfully. “Like sometimes it seems like you’re upset for no reason, or something little sets you off. Does it affect your mood that much?”

Kurt closes his eyes, admonishing himself for being so transparent. “You could tell?”

“Not at the time. But thinking back on it, yeah. A little. Sometimes I don’t know whether to expect happy, bubbly Kurt or angry, sad Kurt. I don’t know which one is the real you.”

“Sometimes I don’t know either.”

They go silent again when a loud snore erupts from a few seats up.

“This is crazy. I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” Kurt lets out a breath.

Blaine stretches his fingers between Kurt’s, “But I’m glad you are.” He presses his nose into Kurt’s neck, breath ghosting over his skin. “Kurt, I--” He sits up, rolling his shoulders, looking out the window past Kurt. “Maybe we should hold off on--on _us_ , until you can figure out which Kurt is the real Kurt. Get things straight in your life. Find a different way to deal with--with this.”

Kurt nods, not trusting his voice. He pulls his hand away from Blaine’s, folding his arms. He lets out a shaky breath, looking into Blaine’s eyes, shining despite the dark. He feels a tear track down his cheek, tickling onto his neck, but doesn’t move to wipe it.

“Will you--” The words on his tongue are foreign, ones he’s never had the guts to ask. “Will you help me?”

A slow smile spreads over Blaine’s features. He grabs Kurt’s hands back and tucks it between his.

“Of course.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the ride back to Dalton, but hold onto each others hands, making silent promises.

To quit.

To help.

+++

“What are you doing?”

Kurt stops in his tracks, water bottle lifted halfway to his mouth. Blaine stomps up to him, ignoring the fact that they are in a crowded hallway. Kurt screws the cap back onto the bottle and tries to push past Blaine. It’s been a couple of weeks since their talk on the bus from regionals. He isn’t in the mood for it today, for the speeches and the pitiful smiles and warm touches.

Insomnia has hit him, and he’s feeling it. The clawing at the back of his eyes, the desperation for sleep. Everything is irritating.

“Kurt, what are you doing?” Blaine is following him despite the fact that his next class is in the opposite direction.

Only when Blaine attempts to swipe the bottle away from him does he stop walking.

“Knock it off, Blaine.”

Another attempt, this time successful. Kurt scrambles, nearly tackling Blaine to get it back. He doesn’t, and Blaine sniffs it, sighs, finds the nearest water fountain and dumps the contents, running the water to rinse the basin. Kurt stares as Blaine screws the cap back on and casually hands it back to Kurt.

“What the hell?”

“I thought you were stopping this,” Blaine eyebrows narrow, though there is sadness on his face, and he puts his hand on Kurt’s arm, squeezes encouragingly.

Kurt shrugs off the touch, “Maybe I don’t want to, Blaine.” He realizes the attention they are drawing and turns away, marching down the hall.

“Kurt--” he chases him, pulling on his shoulder to turn him.

“Knock it off,” Kurt hisses, pushing him away. Blaine licks his lips, sighs.

“Fine. You either want my help or you don’t, Kurt,” he sticks an accusatory finger in Kurt’s face. “But don’t come crying to me when you start failing classes again and get kicked out of here too.”

Kurt winces; it was a low blow, and for a split second, regret shows on Blaine’s face.

“You know, for someone who is always so worried about disappointing his dad, you have a pretty fucked up way to repay him for everything he’s done for you.”

“Don’t talk about my dad.”

A small crowd of students stops, watching their interaction with interest.

“You think your mom would be proud of you, seeing you like this?”

Kurt’s vision goes white as he rushes toward Blaine, pushing him against the wall. They are both breathing hard, eyes narrowed toward one another.

“Do _not_ talk about my mother, Blaine. You don’t know anything about her.”

Blaine looks straight at Kurt, “I don’t have to know her to know she’d be disappointed in you.”

_Crack._

The sound rings out, and suddenly the hallway is silent. The pain reverberates through his arm, and he shakes out his fist, wincing in pain. He looks up at Blaine’s shocked face, angry red mark blossoming on his jaw.

“Mr. Hummel?” He turns his body but doesn’t look away from Blaine, from the hurt in his eyes. A teacher who has stepped out of his classroom at the commotion waits, staring daggers into Kurt, who just nods, swallows hard.

Tears blur his vision as he makes his way to the Dean’s office. He ignores the shocked whispers around him, the other boys staring, wide-eyed, slack-jawed. Blaine hasn’t moved except to bring a hand up to his stinging cheek, watching Kurt walk dejectedly down the hall.

+++

“Dad-- I didn’t--”

“Damnit, Kurt, I don’t want to hear it. What I need to know _right now_ is why I got a phone call explaining that you punched another student and got yourself _expelled_.”

Kurt sighs, uses his free hand to wipe his cheeks, pinch the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on; he can tell it’s going to be a bad one.

“I’m waiting.”

“Blaine. It was Blaine--”

“You punched _Blaine_?”

He squeezes his eyes closed; his dad’s disappointment is apparent, and it stings, physically hurts Kurt to hear it, not that it wasn’t expected.

“I just-- we got into an argument and I-I lost it. It was stupid. I hit him.”

“Kurt, violence is never--”

“Never the answer, yeah, Dad, I know.”

Burt sighs heavily into the phone. “You’d better hope McKinley lets you back in, kiddo. Or I don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do.”

“Dad, I-- I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Kurt sits heavily on his bed, amongst piles of clothes and books that he’s already started packing.

Burt is silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, gentler, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, Kurt, but you’ve gotta get it sorted out okay? This just isn’t acceptable behavior.”

Kurt nods, “I know, Dad. I know. And I’m sorry.”

“Alright, pack up. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

They hang up, and Kurt clears his face, turning and pulling things from his closet.

There is a knock at the door. He stares at it dumbly for a moment, and the knob turns, opening slightly. Blaine’s worried face is visible through the open crack.

“Can I come in?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Kurt croaks.

Blaine sweeps into the room, stopping just a foot away from Kurt. Kurt looks up at his face, the welt visible on his cheek; he brings his hand up to it, not quite touching, but he can’t take his eyes off it. Blaine doesn’t say anything. Kurt breaks.

His face crumples and he feels everything he’s held in release like a dam was opened. “Blaine, I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” Blaine’s arms are instantly around his waist, his chin hooked over his shoulder, holding him as close as he can.

“No. No, I’m sorry. That-- what I said was completely out of line, Kurt. I’m supposed to be helping you and be there for you and all I did was antagonize you and that was _so wrong_ of me.” Kurt buries his face into Blaine’s hair, errant curls tickling his cheek. He is heaving with silent sobs, tears streaming, pressing himself into Blaine.

After a long moment, Blaine peels himself away from Kurt, keeping his hands on his shoulders, holding him steady. Kurt sniffles, smiling sadly.

“So you-- just like that? Gone?”

“Zero-tolerance. I am a bully,” he laughs humorlessly. The laugh turns into another sob and he looks back at Blaine. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without you,” his face falls again, and he gracelessly tumbles onto his bed. Blaine sits next to him, arm slung low around Kurt’s waist. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. I know you can. I see you getting better every day, Kurt.”

Kurt gives him a look that clearly says _look around at the packing going on in my room_ but Blaine ignores it. “You’ll have ups. You’ll have downs. And I’m less than two hours away. Anytime you feel yourself slipping, call me and I’ll be on the road.”

Kurt leans against him, shaking. “I just- I don’t know how-” He sighs, burying his face in his hands. “This was supposed to be the thing I could control, you know? I couldn’t stop people treating me differently, but I could stop caring. I could drink, and stop caring.” He looks up at Blaine. “I could control it. And I don’t know when it started controlling _me_ instead.”

“You know,” Blaine starts quietly. “Your dad would never turn you away if you wanted to talk to him.”

Kurt is shaking his head before Blaine even finishes the sentence.

+++

They appeal to the Allen County School Board. When they agree to allow Kurt to return to McKinley High on academic suspension, he silently thanks Blaine for pushing him so hard in his classes at Dalton, for not allowing him to slack.

The first person he calls is Mercedes, and she is ecstatic at the news, though Kurt comes up with a quick lie about _why_ he is leaving Dalton; it’s convenient that Carole and his dad are by no means rich - it makes for a decent cover.

After his tearful goodbye to Blaine and the Warblers, he returns to McKinley with little fanfare.

The first time he sees Karofsky, he stand still at his locker, trying not to shake, waiting for him to pass.

He doesn’t slow down, but glances at him, mumbles, “Hummel,” by way of greeting. Kurt raises an eyebrow and slowly turns as Karofsky passes him. Santana is at his side and looks back, giving Kurt a quick wink.

Because of his academic suspension, he is barred from rejoining New Directions. He tries to feel sad about this, but just can’t bring himself to do it.

If there’s one thing that he _truly_ regrets about beginning to drink at all, it’s the way that his voice has been affected. He’s lost so much of his range, the burning of the alcohol down his throat. He shrugs them off when Rachel and Mercedes ask when is suspension his over?, when can he rejoin New Directions? He has things to focus on now - sobriety, which, without Blaine conveniently down the hall, requires all of the attention he can spare.

But he’s determined. And he knows it won’t be easy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fifth and final part, along with a short epilogue. Thanks for reading!

The night that everyone is at prom, they are comfortably close on the couch. They mutually decided to forgo the dance; they don’t talk about why, but Kurt knows it’s because Blaine knows that events like that might set him off. Not to mention that, with Noah Puckerman in attendance, the punch will most likely be spiked. Instead, Blaine brings over a veggie pizza and a stack of movies and they press into each others sides, wandering fingers lightly scratching the seams of their jeans.

Their last movie ends, Blaine mostly dozing against his shoulder in the darkened living room. Kurt sits quietly, focused on the feel of Blaine next to him, a small smile on his face as he stares sleepily at the blank screen.

His dad watches them from his armchair, changes the input on the television, and starts idly flipping channels. He stops on the local news, and Kurt lifts his head at the image of the mangled remains of a car.

“Damn shame,” Burt mutters, moving to change the channel.

Kurt holds out a hand, “Wait.”

Blaine lifts his head from Kurt’s shoulder. The image on the screen is gruesome, a black car wrapped around either side of a tree, the ground littered with glass. The blue and red lights flash in the background as police and EMTs try to get the scene under control. It isn’t anyone they know, but the headline on the screen has Kurt shaking, his entire body tense.

_Two Teens Dead in Drunk Driving Accident._

Kurt whimpers, his eyes not leaving the screen, feeling around for Blaine’s hand. Blaine intertwines his fingers between Kurt’s, squeezing. There are tears falling down Kurt’s face but he doesn’t move to wipe them away. The screen blurs in front of his burning face. Out of the corner of his eye, he registers his dad’s concerned look. The thought enters his head that this, _this_ , could be him. He forces himself to look at the wreck as a reminder of why he’s stopped drinking. So he doesn’t end up a statistic. So his dad doesn’t have to bury him alongside his mother.

He falls back to the couch and buries his face into Blaine’s shoulder. The hand not holding his comes up around his shoulders and holds him tight.

“It’s okay,” Blaine whispers against his hair. “It’s okay.”

“Kurt?” His dad’s voice is quiet and concerned.

He just shakes his head against Blaine’s neck. “I’m fine,” he whimpers. “It’s-- you can turn it. Please turn it.”

The channel changes and Kurt takes a moment to catch his breath, get his pulse back to a normal speed. He rubs his cheeks in his palms and Blaine runs a reassuring hand over his hair.

“This could be your chance,” Blaine whispers.

+++

Blaine tells him the best thing to do is to keep himself occupied. Find new hobbies and interests, take up knitting, learn an instrument, anything to curb his instinct to grab a bottle and pour.

Kurt never imagines for a second that one of his distractions would be planning a funeral - of all things that could distract him from drinking, one that reminds him of his motherless upbringing is probably not the best choice.

But Finn asked him, and no matter how frustrated Kurt became with him, he couldn’t turn down the puppy eyes and quiet begging voice Finn has perfected over the months they’ve lived together. He is also sure that Finn and Blaine have been talking while he isn’t around, planning things to keep Kurt busy, to keep him social and happy - which hasn’t been much of a challenge lately. He hasn’t touched a drink in weeks, and he feels it, the want, the _need_ , deep in his bones, but mostly he can push it aside when he wants to. He wants to thank Finn and Blaine, wants to share his appreciation for their concern over his well-being, but it remains an unspoken thing between them.

He and Finn set up in the garage, buckets of paper mache material and drip-pans full of brightly colored paint. They make the cardboard toadstools and lollipops and quiet conversation.

Blaine comes over to help, but just ends up sitting on the steps watching Kurt interact with Finn, chin resting on his palm, a small smile on his face. If it wasn’t so endearing, it would infuriate Kurt. Instead, he focuses on his breathing, on the feel of the wet goop between his fingers, on Finn’s insecurity with dating Quinn and how he still has feelings about Rachel and just what should he do?

Kurt is pleased to find that, though he finds Finn’s conversation rather boring and the mess on his hands less than pleasant, he doesn’t feel the urge to drink to get rid of the nagging thoughts of his dad’s health, the prom-night images of the car that still haunt him at night, the regret of his decision to not join New Directions in New York in the coming week. He needs a hot shower and scrub-brush, perhaps; vodka, less so. Smiling becomes easier.

Once their mini-masterpieces have dried and been painted, the three retreat to the air conditioned living room. Splayed out on couches, Finn mentions what Kurt had been hoping to avoid.

“Have you thought about the song? Singing it with me and Tina and Artie?”

Blaine looks curiously up at Kurt from his cross-legged place on the love seat. “You’re singing?”

Kurt glares at Finn, “Nothing set in stone, yet. They want me to but... I don’t know. My voice --” it breaks, and he wrings his hands together. “It isn’t the same,” he finishes sadly.

Blaine smiles, takes Kurt’s hands in his own, stopping his nervous movements. “I’m sure you’ll be amazing as always.”

Three days later, Kurt stands solemnly at the front of the small gathering of Jean’s friends, lost in an eight-year-old memory of a brutally sunny day in a field of etched stones. He takes a deep breath, scanning the seats until he meets Blaine’s amber eyes, grounding him as they always do.

Among the Glee clubbers - _my friends_ , he thinks stubbornly, still reluctant to categorize them as such after the past year - he can only think about the last time he saw his mother, wasting away in a hospital bed, drowning in gowns and sheets, her small frame made tinier by the machines at her side, the constant beeping the only reminder that she was _alive_.

He remembers the pain on his dad’s face, the unshed tears always in his eyes, threatening to, but never pouring over. The tight grip on Kurt’s shoulder, painful, but the only thing that kept him from disappearing along with her. Reminding him to stay strong, resilient, for his dad. His dad, who endured the worst pain anyone could know, and came through the other side unscathed. His strength only matched by his small son’s, Kurt’s own pain masked to ensure their family unit remained unchanged, as much as it possibly could, despite the gaping hole in both their hearts.

His dad turned to him to keep him strong; Kurt turned to alcohol. It washes over him like a rogue wave, the realization that he spent the last year of his life nearly killing himself to deal with the pain of what-- of being _different_? Of being -- not disliked, but _uninteresting_? He nearly threw away his education - expelled from _two_ schools - and the best friendship he’s ever had for this. He feels like this could be his own funeral. The shame boils in his stomach; he feels like throwing up.

Finn watches him, unsure of the pained look on Kurt’s face, but holds onto his sleeve, a comforting presence saying _I’m here if you need me_. Kurt breathes deeply to steady himself and looks at Finn behind him. He looks to Quinn and Mike to his left, the rest of his Glee club friends - _friends_ \- to his right, and takes Mercedes’ hand in his own. She glances at him and smiles.

He opens his mouth and sings out.

_You’ll be free if you truly wish to be._

He wishes it. He wants freedom from this disease that had so easily taken over his body and mind. He wants to be the Kurt that the alcohol allowed him to be, but without the use of the crutch. He’s been that person lately - taking time at the end of each day to catalogue and categorize everything _good_ that happens to him, rather than focusing on the bad, trying to erase it away. At the realization of what he has to do, what he’s been avoiding, a single tear falls down his cheek; he doesn’t wipe it away, but wears it as a badge of his new consciousness. It is time for him to rediscover Kurt Hummel.

The eerie music ends. He finds his seat next to Blaine, who immediately takes his hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. Kurt leans his head onto Blaine’s shoulder, mentally exhausted with the task before him.

“You sounded beautiful,” Blaine whispers into his hair. Kurt smiles into the crease of his dress shirt, closing his eyes and breathing steadily, purposefully.

“I’m going to tell my dad,” he says quietly to Blaine, not moving from his spot against Blaine’s shoulder. “I’m going to ask for help.”

Blaine rearranges them, his arm winding around Kurt’s shoulders, pulling him tightly to his side. Blaine presses a quick kiss to Kurt’s temple, resting his head against Kurt’s. There is nothing for him to do but offer his quiet support.

+++

A full-body shiver overtakes Kurt’s body. He feels numb with cold, despite the heat. His jaw shakes of its own accord, teeth chattering. He pulls his hands away from his face and looks up at his dad, who is sitting patiently, expectantly, next to Kurt on the couch.

“Dad, I--” His voice won’t work. He can’t do this. Destroy everything he’s worked to keep secret for over a year; he doesn’t know if he’ll survive the disappointment he knows he’ll find on his dad’s face once he knows. “This is going to sound crazy.”

Burt just raises an eyebrow, knowing enough from Kurt’s body language to be patient, to let Kurt talk at his own speed.

“Dad, everything-- my grades, my attitude. Quitting glee. Getting kicked out of Dalton.” He knows he isn’t saying anything significant, he’s ineffectively stalling, but he feels the need to list his faults, list everything that he’s done wrong, get it out in the open.

“Kurt?”

“You told me once it was your job to love me no matter what.”

“And I do. Now quit stalling.”

He lets out a defeated breath. He curls in on himself, dives in headfirst, “I’ve been drinking. Drinking. Alcohol. A lot.” He stares at his knees and swallows hard. When his dad doesn’t say anything, he turns his head slightly to gauge his reaction.

“I’m waiting for the joke.”

Kurt feels pinpricks at the corners of his eyes, his breathing increasing, as he looks back at his knees. “It’s not-- there’s no joke, Dad.” Tears begin falling in earnest. “It started last year when the bullying was getting worse and it got out of control and I-I don’t know how to stop.” He’s shaking his head, rubbing at his cheeks but the dam’s been opened - he’s openly sobbing.

“I don’t - Kurt, what do you expect me to say to that?”

“I need help!” he shouts. He breaths in, reigning in his emotions. “I need help,” he tries again, weakly. He buries his face in his hands, waiting for the inevitable anger from his dad.

Instead, a heavy hand lands on his shaking shoulder, and his face is full of flannel. He feels broken; the part of him that was determined to keep quiet forever has snapped.

“I knew it was - I knew it was something. I knew something was going on,” Burt runs his hands over Kurt’s hair, down his back, pulling him closer. “How long?”

Kurt buries his face deeper into his dad’s shirt. “A little over a year,” he says miserably.

Burt sighs, “It’s okay. It’s okay, son. We’ll get you help.”

Kurt’s heart breaks over and over as he shakes in his dad’s arms, trying to catch his breath, positive that his dad is shaking of his own accord, silent sobs heaving in his chest. He can’t look at his face, doesn’t want to see the pity and disappointment etched in his features.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes he must have fallen asleep. He is curled up on the couch, alone in the living room, half-finished afghan tucked around him. He hears his dad and Carole chatting quietly in the kitchen. He doesn’t want to hear what they’re saying about him. The urge to drink is strong, but the desire, and inability, not to move his limbs wins out. He lays there for what feels like hours, shaking with nerves and adrenaline, when his dad comes back in, kneeling next to the couch. Kurt closes his eyes when his dad runs his hand over his hair, down his side, back up to rest on his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

The twinge in his muscles reminds him of why he told his dad in the first place, remembering his mom, how much strength his dad had shown him, even if he didn’t quite feel it at the time.

He’s the strongest person Kurt knows, always has been. He looks up and sees the unshed tears in his dad’s eyes, hates himself for causing them. But Kurt knows he’ll never let them spill over, won’t let him know how hurt he is, but instead, heave him up by his arms and walk with him until he can do it on his own.

And Kurt knows if he tips forward and Burt can’t catch him in time, that Finn will be there to set him upright. And Blaine, Blaine will be at his side, always, hands poised to catch him when he falls, dust him off and set him on his way again. Until he can do it alone, and Kurt doesn’t kid himself that it will be an easy journey, he will have this safety net, these people to fall on, and he can unleash his monsters and breathe the clear air again.

 

epilogue

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Kurt looks over at Blaine who is tapping the steering wheel in time with the low music.

His eyes leave the road for a quick glance at Kurt. He smiles, “I know. I want to.”

Kurt gives him a small grateful smile. It’s times like this he wonders what would’ve happened to him if he had never met Blaine, never snuck out of school and drove the long road to Dalton to spy on the Warblers. He makes a mental note to thank Puck next time he sees him.

It seems a lifetime ago now, and, in a way, he guesses it is. The person he was back then is gone; it’s been a struggle, continues to be a struggle, but his support system is as strong as it’s ever been.

He looks back out the window, staring at the buildings flying by. They ride in silence. He sticks his hand in his pocket, pulling out the small token, turning it over in his fingers. He drags his fingertips over the design, over the words, and looks over at Blaine when he puts the car into park.

“Thank you.”

Blaine huffs out a laugh, smiling again. “What for?”

Kurt sighs, looks back out the window. “For everything. For the past year.” He worries the token with his thumb. “For-For pushing me forward when I’d lost momentum.”

Blaine takes his hand, the token clasped tight between their palms. Kurt makes a wish that the words burn into his skin, this part of Blaine with him forever. Blaine leans over the center console and presses a lingering kiss to Kurt’s cheek.

“I’ll pick you up in an hour.” He squeezes Kurt’s hand in his, bringing it up to graze his lips over his knuckles.

Kurt nods, looking up at the church in front of them. He sighs, looks down at the coin in his hand. _You held out your hand... and changed my life_. He opens the car door and heads into his meeting.


End file.
